


Re-Education

by houseofabrasax



Series: The Queen's Harem [4]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Begging, Competition, Corporal Punishment, Femdom, Harems, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Master/Slave, Minor Violence, Pain, Psychological Torture, Punishment, Royalty, Self-Hatred, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, self-deprecation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:33:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24081376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houseofabrasax/pseuds/houseofabrasax
Summary: Eight loses control, and now they're all in trouble.
Series: The Queen's Harem [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1653607
Comments: 6
Kudos: 29





	Re-Education

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why I love punishing Eight so much, lol. 
> 
> Featuring: Five, Six, Seven & Eight

_I’ve been here before,_ thought Eight, dimly.

And he had. Not the throne room, of course, he had been there dozens of times. Hundreds, perhaps. He didn’t count.

At the moment, though, Seven was kneeling a few feet to his right, and this he remembered. Seven to his right, and Mistress before them on the throne. But he didn’t like to think about those days, about training. It always constricted his chest and made his throat burn hot. The things he had _said,_ the things he had _done…_ but that was a different man.

And he wasn’t thinking about that man, dead and forgotten. He was thinking about his Mistress, who looked displeased enough to turn his sweat cold.

“You’ve been fighting.”

They both stayed still. It was not a question. Eight stared at the floor, not wanting to look at his scuffed and bloodied hands.

“The two of you, out of anyone.” Her voice was icy, edged with disappointment. “Imagine my shock when I discovered that the cause of my trouble wasn’t Five, quick to anger. It wasn’t even my troublesome Six. Imagine how disappointed I felt learning it was _you two.”_

Eight wanted to melt into the floor, he wanted to dissolve. If he were nothing but mist he would not be here wasting her time. If he were nothing he could not cause any more trouble.

Seven seemed calm, if bruised. What was going on in his head? _Probably nothing,_ he thought bitterly. Seven didn’t think at all, and that was his problem. That’s what had caused this whole mess.

But he couldn’t be angry at Seven, he had no _right_ to be angry at him. Seven belonged to her, and it was worse than arrogant to think his feelings were any cause to do him harm.

“Awfully quiet all of a sudden.”

She was hardly done speaking when the pain came. He expected it, but it didn’t help. Still the horrible jolt took him and inched through his muscles like a snake, slithering in between his ribs and down his spine and tearing him open the whole way. He didn’t fall over, even as he bit his cheek hard enough to draw blood. He was going to do one thing right.

When it subsided into aftershocks he stole a glance at Seven — he’d also managed to stay upright, but his face was beaded with sweat and his breaths had gotten very shallow.

“One of you had better tell me the entire story before I get _inpatient.”_

They both started speaking instantly.

“Please—”

“Mistress—”

Their pleas and apologies galloped over one another. Both of them still breathing hard, voices broken and desperate. She held up her hand and they went dead silent again.

“Eight.” The sound of her saying his name made his stomach lurch. “Tell me.”

“I’m sorry, Mistress, it was completely my fault, I should never —“

Her voice cut in like a knife. “I will decide who is at fault. I told you to tell me what happened, not make apologies.”

He couldn’t even answer a question properly, he couldn’t stop thinking about himself for long enough to answer a _single fucking question._

“Seven?”

Eight’s heart sank.

“We were having a conversation, together.” Seven’s voice was soft and even. Perfect as ever. “Five and Six were…noticing how often Eight had the honor of serving you, Mistress.”

That was a diplomatic way to put it.

_“At this rate, it’s a wonder Mistress bothers to send me downstairs at all,” Six had said, grin shining over a smattering of hickeys on his neck. “I can barely keep my energy up.”_

_“I'll step in if you're so tired,” Five had said. “Except you won’t like how it makes you look.”_

_“I'd take that comparison any day, it would make me seem that much better.”_

_Eight had been lying on a bench nearby, staring at the ceiling and trying to ignore the coiling tension in his abdomen. He’d sat up, then, frustrated. “Do you two ever get tired of having this same argument? Fighting like goddamn children?”_

_“We know you’re a little pent up, Eight, but don’t take it out on us.” Five’s voice had been almost kind, but there was a gleam of something in it. Something smug._

_“What’s that supposed to mean?”_

_Six had turned to Eight, exaggerated pity in his eyes. “Don’t act like you haven’t been counting the days, E. It’s been a while.”_

_It had been a week and a half. There wasn’t anything so unusual about that, but all this week it had been a steady stream of them, in and out. Everyone but him._

Seven went on. “Eight became upset.”

_Eight had tried to keep the anger off his face, but he was agitated._

_“That’s none of your business.”_

_Six had spoken again. “Not true, E. Mistress’s preferences are very much my business, and I sure am sensing a pattern.”_

_Eight had nearly lunged at him, but Seven had appeared at that moment._

“I…tried to deescalate,” said Seven.

_“Lay off him, guys. Don’t you remember at the beginning, when you needed more time between trips to calm down?”_

_Five had laughed. “I don’t think Eight has been calm in weeks.”_

_“Come on--"  
_

_“I don’t need you to fucking defend me,” Eight had growled, turning on Seven._

_“I’m not trying to insult you.” Seven's face had looked pitying, too, except he was sincere about it. “It only makes sense, that you would be worse at keeping your composure, you’re not—” He’d stopped cold._

_“Not what, Seven?”_

He still had the marks from where his fingernails had dug into his palms.

_“Nothing. I didn’t mean anything.”_

_But he’d known what Seven meant, known that he had been on the cusp of saying “Not one of us.”_

_“Eight—”_

_All the tension, coiled inside him for weeks, had sprung out. Red with rage and barely aware of his actions. The next thing he’d noticed was the uniforms pulling him off of Seven._

“But I made him angrier, instead, and we ended up fighting. I’m sorry, Mistress.”

God, he was so _nice,_ it was fucking infuriating. Even when Eight was the one who had jumped him and beaten him. It wasn’t a _fight._ Seven didn’t even have time to land a blow.

If he could be less goddamn selfish, stop worrying about his own needs, maybe he wouldn’t have to quietly resent Seven for being the favorite. He wouldn’t have to be jealous if he was worth something, a slave that Mistress actually wanted to use. He gripped the fabric of his pants, squeezing so tight that his knuckles turned white.

There was a long moment of silence.

“Anything to add?”

Eight knew it was a question for him. If Seven wanted to fall on the sword, what did he care? But she would know if he lied. She probably knew the whole thing, she always knew, that’s why he was supposed to always be on his best behavior. He _knew_ that, and he fucked it up anyway. “It wasn’t — he’s making it sound like it was both of us, but it wasn’t, it was me.” There were hot tears in his eyes. “I was the one who lashed out, Mistress, I’m sorry, it wasn’t him—“

“You’re right.” Her voice was even, but so, so dark. “It wasn’t him. It was all of you.”

“No, please—” Pain, again. He shut his mouth tight as his veins turned to red-hot wire, slicing through him. He knew why he'd earned a second dose. _You’re contradicting Mistress, now? As if you know better? No wonder she doesn’t want you._

“Obviously, I have given you all more trust than you deserve. And you have somehow gotten the impression that it matters what you think.”

Eight shrank back, trying to get smaller. He thought he heard Seven sniffling, on the verge of tears.

_You’re still the same as you always were, ungrateful brat. Seven was right, you don’t belong with them._

She spoke over them, to the uniforms behind. “Take him and the others to the yard. If they want to compare so much, they can compare lash marks.”

Eight was still staring downward, dutifully, but he had a sinking feeling that this did not include him.

Soon enough they confirmed it, shuffling Seven out of the room none too gently. He was alone.

“As for you. What exactly has gone wrong with your head? Aren't you supposed to be the clever one?"

He felt like the words were hurting him, prodding his seared flesh. _Stupid_. _Rash. Selfish._

 _“_ You’ve proven well enough that you don’t have any respect for my property, so I don’t think a lashing will do you any good.”

Eight’s heart was pounding. What did that mean? He was panicking, now: he wanted to go to the pole with the rest of them. He knew what it meant to go to the pole, at least. She was speaking like it would be worse.

“Do you remember where you came from?”

 _No. No no nonononono._ It was truthfully hazy, distant and all jumbled together, but he did his best _not_ to remember it, never to remember it. That was a different man. That man was dead.

"Well?"

“No, Mistress—“ He flicked his eyes upward, as quickly as possible, saw the disgust on her face and felt his heart in his throat. “That is, I mean — y-yes, I do, some, but I—it’s nothing to me, please don’t—”

“No? You don’t want to go home?”

 _Not one of us._ It was Seven's voice in his thoughts, twisted and cruel.

“No! That isn’t my home, don’t send me back there, don’t send me away, please! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I should have stayed away from Seven and controlled m-myself and—”

“Quiet. If you’re so sure you don’t belong there, it doesn’t matter what the others say. Does it?”

The tears were pouring hot and strong now, and his mind felt like it was shrinking into a single spot of panic.

“No, Mistress.”

He heard something then, from above. The sound of her footsteps, descending the throne. The last thing he needed was for Mistress to get a better look at him, sniveling and disheveled. She would want him even less.

But her footsteps came nearer anyway. Then her hand was on his chin; not firm, as he expected, but gentle. Warm. She tilted his face up towards her. He averted his eyes but could still see that her expression had softened. _Why? Why would she have anything but contempt?_

One of her thumbs brushed his cheek, almost tenderly. It seemed like a long time before she spoke. 

"You are sorry, aren't you?"

He nodded, almost choking on his tears. "Yes, Mistress, I'm so sorry, I'm so--"

He was cut off by her voice, a soft _shush_. “I know." Her fingers were gentle on his face. "I've decided I’m willing to keep you.”

His heart exploded with relief. He cried harder.

“We just have to fix that head of yours, first.”

Her tone was so soothing. This was good, he wanted — _needed_ — to be fixed, to stop his selfish and petulant thoughts, his worst impulses. He wanted to scrub his brain clean.

She pulled gently and he rose under her touch, the storm inside him calming slightly. She wanted to keep him. Whatever happened next, it didn’t matter, she wanted to keep him. As long as that was true, he had the chance to be better.

She waved him off with an pair of guards, turning away. They took his wrists roughly, yanking his arms behind and pushing him in front of them. It was more force than usual, but it made sense that he could not be trusted. Not when he had misbehaved so badly.

They shoved him through a hallway and into a dark room. His mind was a too-big balloon, pressing into his skull, only now deflating. He focused on moving his body as directed, and it was not until he was right beside it that he recognized this place.

A cage, the cage from... before. Where Mistress had kept _him._

This wasn't happening. Eight couldn't bear to be that man again, he was disobedient and frightened and always in pain, so much _pain._

“No, please—!”

But they had already shoved him inside and locked the door. He could do nothing but stand dumbstruck against the barely-tall-enough ceiling, shoving down memories of who he used to be.

He shouted toward the door. “Mistress, please, I’ll be good! I’ll be perfect! I’ll fix my thoughts, I swear, don’t make me stay here!” He didn’t even know If she could hear him. The guards had made their way to the door and pulled it shut, leaving him in total darkness.

_I’m not him. I’m not him. She wants to keep me, Mistress wants me. I’m not him._

He had barely escaped his dream-life the first time, and now he was here in its grave. Haunted. He slid to the ground, sobs overtaking him.

—

Seven wrung his hands. The bruises were gone, now, even though his skin was more prone to discoloration than the others. Like a sweet summer fruit, Mistress sometimes said. That’s why his scars were still an angry red, while everyone else’s had begun to fade.

Six told him to stop worrying. That’s what the punishment is for, he said. You can’t hang on to it, you just do better. But Seven wasn’t used to being punished, not like Six was. Every time he caught a glimpse of the scars he felt nauseous.

There was a sound at the door, and Seven looked up. It seemed too early for Five to be back. Five was slow.

Then the uniform swung the door open, and Eight stepped through.

Seven jolted upward, slamming his legs into the underside of the dining table, but he didn’t care.

“ _Six!”_ he yelled, already scrambling toward the door.

Eight saw him and half-smiled as Seven ran toward him. Without thinking he pulled Eight into a painful hug, hardly believing what he was seeing.

Eight was taken aback, but he gave a small laugh. “Hey.”

Six had appeared now, yawning and scratching his head. “Damn, man, we didn’t think you were ever coming back.”

“Hey, don't say that,” snapped Seven.

“Don't look at me, it was mostly Five. But that's his loss, he owes me a portion now."

Seven had stepped back and was eyeing Eight carefully. He didn’t look hurt. His eyes were a little hollow, dark circles like he’d missed too much sleep, but he couldn’t find any other injuries. That was something, at least.

“I’m so sorry,” said Seven.

“What for?” Eight looked confused.

“I’m the reason you were…I never should have said…” He cleared his throat, tried to make his voice less meek. “I don’t think you’re not one of us.”

Eight laughed again, crinkling his brow in confusion. “What are you talking about? Of course you don’t think that, what the hell else would I be?”

Seven blinked; Six was gaping at him. “You don’t remember?” asked Six.

Eight shrugged. “I remember losing my shit and attacking you, that’s all.” He frowned. “I should be saying sorry, not you.”

“No sweat. Wasn’t even my worst lashing this year.” Six yawned again. “Now that I've said hello, I'm going back to bed.” He walked off.

Seven wrung his hands again. “I…I’m still sorry. I should have known how much it would upset you if I brought up where you’re…where you used to live.”

Eight looked very calm. Steady. “Seven, relax. I’m not upset.”

“You’re not?”

He shook his head. “Honestly, I still have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about. You should know I’ve never lived anywhere but here.”

Seven just stared at him. That wasn’t right, was it?

But Six said not to hang on to it, and he seemed to feel better now. Maybe Seven should try that, too. Eight was back, so...it didn't matter. Right?

“Anyway, I’m going to bed, too. Come on, you look beat.”

Seven shook his head, trying to clear the confusion. He nodded and followed Eight to the bunks. 


End file.
